


Fall In Flames

by theoreticallychaotic



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Madeleine Era, Major Illness, Possible Dubious Consent, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-07 22:19:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1125034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoreticallychaotic/pseuds/theoreticallychaotic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the prompt:</p>
<p>Stubborn and dutiful as he is, Javert goes to work despite a really bad fever. Needless to say this is a bad combination, and (eventually) he becomes delirious and collapses. </p>
<p>I’d love to see this take place during the Madeleine-era, so Javert can collapse in front of Monsieur le Maire, who of course insists on taking care of him. That in turn would give Javert’s fever-flushed mind more than enough opportunity to admit to his usually well-repressed feelings for Valjean/Madeleine, and things can, ahem, ‘progress’ from there. Your call on how far: anything from kissing to ‘it’ works for me.</p>
<p>Whether the fever is due to illness or injury doesn’t matter, as long as it’s nothing icky or lethal please! I just want a good reason to get the dear Inspector all hot ‘n bothered, so he can lose some of that infuriating self-control of his :D. </p>
<p>Any ‘verse welcome, canon or (modern) AU, although I will admit that personally I’m partial to Stage!Javert (Quast!Javert if you want to make me reaaaaally happy). Something about that arrogant pride just begs to be broken. And there is the ponytail, of course ;p Would be nice, but like I said, any 'verse is welcome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fall In Flames

Javert wasn’t ill. Of course he wasn’t. A day patrolling in the brisk autumn air feeling its coolness cleansing his lungs, and he’d be right once more. He knew he should eat too; the slice of pie that one of the locals had gifted him on his round the previous afternoon had gone untouched last night. He’d returned home; late as usual, and with a stomach spurning any sort of sustenance, stumbled into bed, shivering. He stared for a moment at a crust of bread, feeling for it the sort of contempt that he usually graced upon his prisoners. Back turned, he left the kitchen and made to pick up his cravat from where he had hooked it over the banister of the stairs as he dragged himself to bed the night before. His wool uniform scratched like jagged metal against his sallow skin; the cloth weighed heavily on his aching muscles. His shoulders grated as he looped the silk around his neck, speedily slurping up the perspiration there. Javert decided to forego his greatcoat; if last night was anything to go by the shivering would soon cease and his body would bathe in the hottest fires of hell. With a trembling hand he picked up his hat and sat it atop his head, the shadow of the brim masking his damp brow and the dark circles painted around his eyes. Suitably dressed, he tucked his nightstick under his arm and took leaden steps to his morning meeting with the Mayor. 

As with every other morning, Valjean, though known to all others as Monsieur Madeleine was overseeing business at his factory. On any other morning the short journey would have taken Javert – using large strides and brisk steps - no more than ten minutes, but today took at least double that. He reached the staircase leading up to the Mayor’s office: his feet felt as though he had walked over hot pins; every sinew throbbed right up to his head; he huffed for breath like a labouring woman; his blood, he was sure, had mutated into icy water. A common observation made about the Inspector was his height; he towered over most people he met and, coupled with strong shoulders and a broad chest, the action alone of stepping out of the shadows was enough to cow even the most intrepid of law-breakers. Stairs were of no challenge to Javert either, his long, lissom legs allowed him to take them two at a time, but on this day all he could manage was a slow trudge; baby steps, one by one, an ancient tackling Olympus to reach his God. 

“Come in, Javert,” Valjean called, before the Inspector had even rapped on the door.

It happened on almost every visit and Javert had never been able to completely work out how he did it – a keen pair of ears was the best he could deduce. 

“Good morning, Monsieur le Maire,” Javert’s couldn’t keep the tremor from his voice; his confident baritone reduced to a feeble murmur.

“My god, Javert” Valjean’s eyes widened on seeing Javert’s pale and shivering form. “Sit down before you fall completely!” 

Javert responded with what had become his standard reply when the Mayor invited him to sit: “I’d prefer to stand, thank you.”

“Sit, Javert,” Valjean’s tone turned sharp.

Javert obeyed, albeit unenthusiastically and only because he had little desire to argue back. 

Valjean perched on the edge of his desk, arms folded and faced his sickly Inspector with compassion: “You should not be here. Whatever possessed you to undertake your work in such a state?” 

Javert squinted his eyes a little, trying to focus his hazy gaze on his superior: “I assure you I do not feel as ill as I look. “Besides,” he swallowed hard, stinging his throat, “I’m awaiting some important news regarding a former con of mine – Jean Valjean.” 

It was Valjean who now experienced a cold shiver. He hesitantly stood and walked around to the far side of his desk, shielding the anxiety that etched deep into his expression: “Valjean?”

Javert continued to tremble, his skin scraping against the rough wool and chill perspiration trickled down his neck, as he explained: “He broke parole and disappeared a number of years ago.” 

Javert lacked the energy to elaborate further and Valjean took the opportunity to cut the conversation there.

“You would tell me if you felt unfit to continue your duties today?”

Javert felt his neck crick with a load pop as he attempted to bow his head. “Of course, Monsieur le Maire.” 

“Very well,” Valjean began, preparing to dismiss Javert: “Report back at midday.” 

Midday would normally be just another hour to work, one that blended into all the others, but today, as requested, Javert struggled back to his Mayor; a loyal dog obeying its master. During the intervening hours, Valjean, had first spent time tracking over the short conversation Javert had managed – he was pretty sure the policeman had failed to recognise his true identity and he was safe for one day more at least. Yet, Valjean also couldn’t deny his guilt – he had cast a man, one who would readily put duty and the law before his own needs, out to battle through the rest of the morning, when he should have marched him home and to bed there and then. He had made an effort to right this and go after Javert, only to be halted on the factory floor by his foreman, on pressing business. That guilt rounded on him and bit harder now he saw the deteriorated state Javert was in. 

The quivering wasn’t so noticeable now; what was evident was how saturated his uniform had become, how the sweat had pasted his usually fluffy sideburns to his pallid skin, how his bright blue eyes had paled to grey. Valjean steered him to the chair, dispelling with formalities.

“You’re going home, Javert,” Valjean ordered. “You need to rest.”

Javert, his square shoulders slumped downwards and unsteady on his chair, made a weak attempt at argument: “Cannot…’le Maire…work…”

Here, in an ill-advised consultation with his fevered mind, he pushed his cumbersome frame to stand only for his knees to buckle and cause him to fall heavily into Valjean. Valjean was one of the few who could match the Inspector for strength and, almost unthinkingly, he scooped Javert, limp-limbed and slurring his protestations, into his arms and headed for the stairs. As he left his workplace and dashed through the streets, trying not to roll on the cobbles, he could sense the bemused stares of his workers and townspeople; he could only imagine the scene he had presented to them as he carried the feared police inspector like a distressed damsel. 

Valjean arrived home, thankful to find his housekeeper still there. Maёlle, to give her proper name, was employed by Valjean for only part of the time as an aide with general housekeeping and cooking. 

She appeared from the kitchen, twisting her greasy hands in the apron she wore: “I did not expect – Good lord!”

“Send for a doctor,” Valjean instructed.

The stricken man writhed in Valjean’s arms, twisting his body to try to break free. “No doctor. Please,” he gasped, “No doctor.”

“I won’t,” Valjean, taking staggering steps, started to mount the stairs as Javert thrashed all the while. “Hush,” he soothed, “I won’t.”

Maёlle scuttled behind, following the Mayor to the bedroom at the far end of the corridor. She busied herself building up a fire as Valjean viciously yanked the sheets back and laid the police inspector on the bed. Javert was in no condition to register any of the fine details; had he been perfectly well when admitted to this house he would have found it only a little more comfortable than his basic lodgings. In fact the covers upon which he now lay was perhaps the few items of luxury that Valjean owned, along with two solid silver candlesticks.

Javert had calmed somewhat since his protest against the need for a doctor, though his health was still a grave concern for Valjean. He was sure the Inspector either had a vague or no notion of where he was or how he got there; Javert, had he possessed the skill to know Valjean’s thoughts, would have confirmed his suspicions. His most conscious notion was that he had ascended into Hell; all was black and cold around him whilst he burned like the hottest star in the centre of this alien universe. Valjean cast a flitting glance down to Javert; his skin had the same stony hue as the clouds outside; shallow waves of breath caused his chest to rise and fall lightly. As Valjean slid a button through its hole, his nimble fingers stroked over Javert’s clammy skin, feeling the searing heat. 

“Fetch a shirt,” Valjean addressed Maёlle. “And some water – warm it. Not too hot, though.”

She complied with a nod and left the room. Valjean quickly worked open the other buttons and exposed the Inspector’s chest. Valjean was not prudish about seeing another man unclothed, it was a regular sight during his Toulon days, yet he’d never meditated on such things either; he knew the Inspector to be robust and fit enough to outrun many a felon but the sight of what lay beneath that immaculate uniform – firm planes, hints of definition, soft, downy hair - impressed Valjean. Valjean knew that Javert would feel humiliated enough when he would learn all that the Mayor had done for him and though Javert’s woollen trousers were as sodden as the top of his uniform, he decided to spare Javert’s remaining sliver of dignity and left his trousers untouched. Instead, he moved to the end of the bed and was peeling away Javert’s boots when Maёlle returned; she draped the linen shirt over the decoratively carved footboard then departed for the kitchen. Valjean set Javert’s weighty leather boot on the floor beside its partner before snatching up the shirt. Javert, overpowered by lethargy, was rendered incapable of preventing Valjean from disrobing him of his tunic; Valjean was able to slip the Inspector’s thick, strong arms easily from the sleeves and pull the damp clothing from under him. With a little effort, and a groan of discomfort from Javert, Valjean helped him sit up enough to wrap the shirt around his shoulders and guide his hands down the tube of the arms. With care, Valjean lay Javert down onto the pillows once more, gently tugging the tied tresses of his hair to drape over his shoulder before he pulled the coverlet up to Javert’s waist. Maёlle appeared again and silently left the floral porcelain bowl and a washcloth next to the bed.

Javert had started to shudder again; his shoulders shook and he scrunched his closed eyes tighter together as he curled into himself, seeking warmth. Valjean lightly pressed the back of his hand to Javert’s clammy brow. As mentioned, Javert was far from the smallest of men and his tall, broad build filled much of the bed. Valjean, having scooped up the moistened washcloth, perched himself on the edge of the bed and started to dab at Javert’s feverishly burning skin; first his brow then patting slowly over his cheeks, down his thick neck and tracking the deeply scored lines of his clavicles.

Throughout Valjean’s tender attentions and Javert trying to hug into his own body, Javert was striving to make sense of the sequence of events that had led him to now feel the threads of cold that weaved deep into his bones, the aches that gnawed at every joint and sinew. He remembered being with the Mayor that morning; that thoughts of Valjean were anchored deep in his mind like a weed that refused to be tamed; and now here he was with all the Hell he had ever heard preached manifesting itself through his being. He dared to open his eyes, the dull light from the overcast sky spilling in through the window was enough to hurt. The man beside him pressed something wet to his flushed chest. Javert forced himself to study him; his shape, his features – chestnut hair framed his square face, blue eyes tinged with kindness, plump lips, a contrast to Javert’s own. At that moment, he realised it was Monsieur Madeleine, which prompted an attempt to halt his superior in this task.

Javert’s weakened limbs flailed as he used the tiny bit of strength he had to push himself to sit up: “Monsieur,” What followed was a churned river of speech, unintelligible to his companion, as he tried to explain how his world had seemingly inverted.

“Hush, Javert,” Valjean’s hefty hands were on Javert’s broad shoulders, pressing him back down into the pillows. 

Javert complied and savoured the feeling of the downy pillows taking his weight. He tightly captured Valjean’s hand in his own. With his free hand, Valjean soaked the washcloth once again; Javert held his dim gaze as Valjean turned back to him. The fire flickered then, casting a glorious glow across the room. The shadows jumped and for a moment a phantom of reminiscence materialised before Javert’s drowsy eyes. His voice was so low that Valjean almost didn’t hear what Javert had said.

“What did you say, Inspector?” Valjean’s mouth turned dry. Javert slackened his hold on Valjean’s hand.

Javert stared through Valjean; his eyes lacked their normally prominent glint of disdain: “You’re Valjean.” 

Valjean held the cloth to Javert’s forehead again. “Your fever speaks for you, Javert,” Valjean continued to dab, undecided whether Javert had saw him plain or if it was an outburst of his fevered mind. 

Javert’s eyelids sagged some more as he spoke with an equally heavy voice: “The only thing I allow to speak for me.” 

Valjean returned the washcloth to the bowl. When he looked back at Javert he found the Inspector near asleep, his fever having been quelled yet again. His chest was rising and falling in a steady rhythm and though he still kept a pale pallor he was no longer sheened in perspiration. 

“Sleep, now,” Valjean swept a few errant strands of hair from Javert’s face as he soothingly whispered. 

Javert obeyed and, within that cocoon of sleep, was soon sat at his desk, the unattended paperwork that had accumulated during the past few days of his absence was neatly piled in front of him. With a flick of his hand he grabbed the first few sheaves and cast a cold and critical eye over the fluid scrawl. 

“Inspector,” Valjean, his true identity now known to Javert, walked into the room and made his way to stand directly behind Javert. “I’m glad to see you better, though you don’t seem completely recovered.”

Before Javert could speak Valjean’s hands pressed on his shoulders, kneading at the tight muscles there. Valjean squeezed his hands lightly as they slithered across Javert’s shoulders then tracked back again, before they met and he pushed his thumbs into the tender flesh of Javert’s neck. Javert’s eyes were two wide expanses of ocean; his voice hooked in his throat. Valjean’s one hand continued working whilst the other snaked out and wound itself in the luscious chestnut tresses of Javert’s ponytail; the worm of ribbon caught between Valjean’s fingers. Valjean tugged firmly on his mane to bring Javert’s head back so as he could graze small kisses over Javert’s cheek to his mouth; the feathery sideburns tickling the tip of his nose. Valjean stepped around, hand still coiled in Javert’s hair, and in a single sweep of movement sank into the Inspector’s lap.

“Let me take care of you, Javert,” Valjean whispered against Javert’s lips before he kissed him, hard. 

The tip of his tongue pushed deep into the spongy flesh of Javert’s throat, and Javert was returning the action with equal fervour. The action repeated with their hips pressing together; a growl surged forth from Javert, deep and reverberating, tangling with Valjean’s own grateful groans. It was inevitable that Javert found himself stretched over his desk, his paperwork sliding to the floor as he was graced with one, two fingers, and then a third. Valjean stood between Javert’s thighs; his body arched; his moist breath panting in Javert’s ear. Those fingers coiled repeatedly, and Javert’s body with them; he thrashed like a caught animal as he keened Valjean’s name over and over.

It was the sound of Javert’s frenzied cries that caused the Mayor to stir; he sleepily lifted his head from his chest and blinked rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the glow of firelight. As his drowsy miasma cleared Valjean was able to recall the day’s events – Javert falling ill; his bringing Javert home; how he’d nursed him; watched over him as he slept, and in doing so had fallen into an exhausted reverie himself. By the light of the fire Valjean saw Javert, evidently agitated, roiling and writhing across the mattress:

“Valjean!” he rolled onto his left side, “God, Valjean!” He was now rolling to his right. 

“Javert!” Valjean called, not hesitating to leap from the wingback chair and onto the bed.

Javert continued to squirm, breathily chanting Valjean’s name. Valjean, knowing that he had to calm Javert enough before he caused himself injury, straddled the distressed Inspector and clamped his waist firmly between his thighs.

“Javert,” Valjean exclaimed as Javert jerked awkwardly. “Javert!”

“Please, Valjean! Oh God, please!”

Valjean gripped his hands forcefully against Javert’s strong shoulders and pushed hard to pin him to the bed. “Javert!” he growled harshly, holding him in place. 

Valjean’s rough tone and the weight of his form restraining Javert worked enough for Valjean to receive his attention; the sweat-soaked inspector stared up at Valjean, his expression clouded with confusion. 

“It’s me, Javert.” 

Javert’s coarse voice had a confounded lilt: “Valjean?” 

There was a slow shake of Valjean’s head: “Monsieur Madeleine. Monsieur le Maire.”

“No!” Javert began to squirm again, “Valjean! I need…”

Valjean dug his knees into the tender flesh of Javert’s side, he clawed his hands deep into Javert’s tight muscles; “I’m Monsieur le Maire – your Maire,” Valjean implored as he slid his hands to clutch Javert’s thick-set jaw and bore an intense look into Javert’s vacant eyes. “Who am I, Javert? Tell me, who am I?”

Javert continued to stare with little awareness of Valjean’s demand, “Touch me,” he gasped.

Valjean’s mouth parted as he looked back to Javert, puzzled.

“Please, Valjean,” He tried to roil again and hissed as his eager hips scraped against the weight that was Valjean. His voice roughened like stone; a desperate growl: “Touch me! Your hand, your mouth, damn you!”

Valjean allowed his hands to fall to Javert’s chest; the Inspector’s skin was flushed red as the heat blazed beneath. “Hush, Javert,” Valjean’s skated his weathered hand back up to cup Javert’s cheek. “You’re feverish,” Valjean brushed a thumb over Javert’s cheekbone, “Whatever you feel is nothing more than an illusion.”

Valjean shifted – his plan was to fetch fresh water – but as his hips slid back, he abruptly discovered the cause of Javert’s intense discomfort; a hardship that was anything but an illusion. Valjean wanted to move then, prise himself away from Javert almost with the same quickness as if Javert had truly uncovered his proper identity, yet he remained straddling the Inspector, straddling his squirming hips, as though held in place by the heaviest of chains. Javert continued, seeking his paradise from the black inferno he was trapped in. To call Valjean’s initial feeling, to follow the necessary course of action, reluctance was quite the understatement; could Javert, in his delirious state, truly know what he was begging for? Yet, Valjean was acutely aware of the Inspector’s desperate distress; not only could he not turn from the suffering of another, but he knew of the searing yearn for the touch of another, which had occasionally flared up during his own time at Toulon, and no-one to soothe or cool ever came. A sharp gasp from Javert, and Valjean found himself leaning forward, into the Inspector.

“Tell me what you want, Javert,” his voice hummed low in Javert’s ear as his hand slithered under the coverlet. 

“I want you,” Javert panted, “Always wanted you.”

That hand slithered under the waistband of Javert’s woollen trousers and embraced the inflamed flesh there. 

“Always?” Valjean’s voice slid up in its pitch; a corresponding movement from his hand.

Any response Javert had intended to make was consumed by another strong hiss as Valjean glided his hand back along the path he had just traced. They stayed like that: Valjean bridged over his Inspector; sturdy cock in his equally sturdy hand. Valjean started with lazy strokes and trailed his middle finger, teasing Javert with a light tickle from his blunt fingernail. As the fire dwindled darker and darker, Valjean’s caresses gradually quickened; his pace more laconic, firm flesh squeezed firm flesh. Javert, usually rigid with control and order, was clinched tight between Valjean’s powerful thighs as his hot, thrumming body thrashed wildly at Valjean’s torturous touch. A fiery blush had blazed from his chest, up his neck and into his cheeks, his cerulean eyes were alight and sparkled like the brightest stars.

“Val…Valjean,” Javert stammered. A particularly jagged bolt of pleasure jolted him at that moment and he clawed his hands around Valjean’s thick thighs.

Valjean lowered his body further and pressed himself against Javert, feeling his writhing form scrape against the thin veil of his shirt. 

“So beautiful, Javert,” he cooed before he flicked out his tongue and mapped the frame of Javert’s ear with its moist tip. “Do it,” Valjean breathed, his voice taunting; a jailer showing his prisoner the key to his freedom, “Come for me,” and with that he thrust his tongue deep into Javert’s red mouth, just as he shoved the heel of his hand hard against Javert’s cock.

That was enough to for Javert; he felt himself tumble from the precipice, spinning down and down, as a pleasurable fire swirled within him. He tore away from Valjean as his elation arced his body; his fingers tensed and dug deep into Valjean’s muscles and lolled his head on Valjean’s shoulder, his body shaking unevenly as he sucked in sob after sob of air. Valjean wrapped an arm around him, stroking his slicked hair as if calming a frightened filly.

The fire had grown low, only occasional licks of orange indicated it hadn’t died completely.

“Here,” Valjean mumbled, “Lie down.” 

He coaxed a heavy-limbed and lethargic Javert down onto the pillows before disentangling himself from his subordinate; Valjean reached across to the basin of water and picked up the saturated washcloth; his other hand, now wet, still lingered beneath Javert’s waistband. He set about cleaning himself before he removed Javert’s soiled trousers. Valjean cast his gaze over Javert’s face, whose expression was peaceful with sleep, as he wiped wide strokes of the soggy cloth over Javert’s firm belly; he must have stroked a particularly sensitive spot for Javert’s muscles tensed fleetingly and he emitted a wisp of a whimper. Having completed his task, Valjean tugged the coverlet back up to Javert’s waist and left in search of a fresh cloth and water. It was some time before he returned and when he did, a bowl of warm soup and crust of bread in his hands, Javert was lying awake. The darkness from around his eyes had receded somewhat and a faint blush pinked his cheeks. 

“How do you feel, Javert?”

Javert, head still flush on the pillow, turned to the door to find Valjean approaching him. 

“Monsieur le Maire!” Javert hastily pushed himself to sit up. “What…” he rubbed his fingertips over the soft, thick coverlet as his eyebrows knotted in perplexity, “How did I get here?”

“You fell ill whilst at my office,” Valjean placed the bowl on the nightstand, “I brought you here. You’ve been asleep for much of the time.”

“How long?” 

“Several hours,” Valjean balanced on the edge of the bed, “You’ve been dreaming too, calling me by the name of Valjean.”

Javert averted his eyes choosing instead to stare at the tessellated fabric, “Forgive me, Monsieur le Maire.”

“You need not apologise,” Valjean instructed. “Though,” Valjean’s tone lightened, causing Javert to look up, “Is he someone I should know about? Do I remind you of him?”

“A dangerous convict?” Javert’s voice lilted with a delicate scoffing laugh, “Thankfully not, Monsieur le Maire.”

“Good,” Valjean whispered almost imperceptibly as he picked up the soup bowl, “I’m glad.”


End file.
